Our Bodies, Possessed by Light
by rainbow-dango
Summary: Set after 2x13, "What Lies Below." Peter reevaluates his relationship with Olivia; "She hesitates, but presses her lips to his again, slipping her arms around his neck. He finds her waist and they're pressed together in her doorway, wrapped up in each other, cold winter air against their warm bodies." Written for the anniversary of the series finale.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I know, I know, this was supposed to be posted on Saturday. But midterms + life = an extremely busy and somewhat disgruntled Ellie. Oops? Anybody who's read my stuff before knows my less-than-stellar updating habits. I'm really hoping to turn that around with this fic, _Lullaby_, and the _Castle _fic that I'm working on with another author in the fandom._

_Confession time: this was originally supposed to be something else, but my friend Maddie was feeling pretty down, and I just had to write this for her. This'll probably end up being decently long, unlike the one-shot I posted a few days ago. Sound good? Good._

_Disclaimer: Olivia Dunham and Peter Bishop don't belong to me, _Fringe_ doesn't belong to me, etcetera, etcetera. You know the drill.__  
_

* * *

When she answers the door, hair tied up casually and pajamas on, the painful knot in his chest loosens. She's okay. They're both okay. Crises have been averted; car crashes and deadly viruses can't hold back fringe division. That's what he tells himself, over and over.

"Hey," he says, expertly faking a charming smile, masking his breathless relief. He's never told her, never told anyone, but memories of her "accident" still float around the forefront of his mind. Terrible images of Olivia Dunham lying motionless and broken in a hospital bed, eyes closed, looking so deceptively serene. And after today -

A smile from her, just hearing her voice, they're everything. Her heart's beating and his heart's beating and it's kind of miraculous.

_Say something, Peter._

"How are you doing?"

_Idiot._

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" The corners of her lips quirk up, but she seems exhausted.

He shakes his head slightly. "I barely remember being infected. Just an overwhelming need to get outside."

Her expression softens, becomes more sincere.

"I'm fine, Peter."

She's so _real_, a stark contrast to his most recent line of work, an anchor. Tethering him. He's just starting to realize how much he's needed that.

He steps closer and, like the reckless moron he is, kisses her. It's a bad idea, beyond a bad idea, and she isn't reciprocating, isn't reacting. He can almost hear the doubts running through her mind. A thought enters his: _Some genius_ -

That's when she kisses him back, and it wipes his mind utterly blank, gloriously blank. It's only her, only Olivia, living, breathing, wondrous Olivia, her fingers drifting up to his face to cradle his cheeks. They've never been this close - physically - and he's not exactly sure where his hands are or what they're doing but she feels so _good_ that he can't bring himself to worry over minor details.

Of course, the moment doesn't last too long. She breaks the kiss, but stays only inches from him, and looks up at him with those lovely, troubled eyes, doesn't move her hands.

"No more worrying," he says, low and soft. "I think we've already done enough of that today."

She hesitates, but presses her lips to his again, slipping her arms around his neck. He finds her waist and they're pressed together in her doorway, wrapped up in each other, cold winter air against their warm bodies.

No more worrying.

Even as a child, Peter was intensely solitary. He was always well aware of this character flaw, and was sure he would always be like that, which didn't bother him too much. Not when the people that he encountered were who they were, crooked and selfish like himself. But Olivia is different from them, different from anyone he's ever met or known, strong and selfless and lion-hearted. She took him away from his self-inflicted isolation and gave him a family. And now he's kissing her and it feels completely _right_ and maybe he does belong in Massachusetts after all.

* * *

The next morning, he wakes first, and tugs the covers tighter around them (December isn't the most comfortable time to be sleeping naked). Her cheek rests against his shoulder blade, stomach to his back, her legs tangled in his. He can't help but smile; waking up with Olivia Dunham cuddled up to you is hardly the worst thing in the world.

After a still, blissful moment, Olivia stirs, waking, and then presses a kiss to the space behind his ear.

"Good morning," she murmurs.

He turns over, hovering above her, faces inches apart. She kisses him, arms winding around his neck as they did the night before, and then moves from his mouth to his neck. His fingertips skim her sides, her hips, lingering and teasing.

Eventually, when their morning greeting comes to an end, they make their way out of bed and pull on clothes. Well, just underwear, really. Olivia, over her bra, also dons Peter's shirt, rolling up the sleeves so they don't obscure her hands. They traipse out to the kitchen and scour the cabinets for viable breakfast food, a formidable task in the Dunham household. With Rachel and Ella out of the house, as they had been since yesterday, they didn't have to worry about modesty or explanations. All by themselves, there's no awkwardness or weirdness, just an unprecedented naturalness, as if simple domesticity has somehow always been their fate.

"You know," she says, smiling, flipping a pancake, "I could get used to this."

He kisses her temple and discretely drops some chocolate chips into the batter she just poured, a second pancake. She raises an eyebrow at him.

"They're completely essential," he deadpans. "You should know this, Olivia."

She rolls her eyes, not even trying to pretend she's anything but amused, and he grins at her.

"You really are Walter's son, aren't you?"

"Hey, now, no need to be rude, Liv."

"Liv?"

He shrugs.

They make scrambled eggs too, and a pot of coffee, and then sit down at the table. Her legs end up across his lap and she laughs when he tells a dumb joke and she's never felt quite so unadulteratedly happy.

It's almost like being under a spell, and when Olivia's sister and niece return home early, the spell's broken. Olivia can only blush and tug the hem of Peter's shirt to hide as much as possible.

"Why are you guys in your undies?" Ella asks, innocently bewildered. Upon noticing the pancakes and eggs, she adds, "Why are you eating breakfast in your undies?"

"Go play, El," Rachel says, smirking knowingly at Olivia.

Ella - albeit confusedly - obliges.

"So, you two are together now," Rachel says, leaning against the counter.

The older Dunham considers that briefly; she's never taken relationships lightly, romantic or platonic. Her (understandable) distrust of people usually overpowers her loneliness, a protective and defensive instinct. Usually.

"Yeah," Olivia replies easily. "We are. What's your point, Rach?"

"Nothing." Rachel tilts her head slightly, sister-speak for _Sassy this morning, aren't we?_ "You two are cute together, that's all."

"Cute," Peter echoes, a hand on Olivia's leg, thumb almost distractedly caressing her ankle bone. "You know, most of my ex-girlfriends described me as a puppy at least once. I'm sensing a pattern here. Maybe it's the eyes."

"So, is the part of the relationship where mentioning exes ruins everything?" Olivia teases, shocking herself. Joking like that doesn't usually come so naturally to her, but the words just slipped out. What is Peter Bishop doing to her?

"I don't know, Agent," he counters. "Is it?"

She quickly tugs her chair closer to his and pulls him into a kiss. Rachel fakes a disgusted face and throws a chocolate chip, the bag of which was left out by the lovebirds.

Olivia can't not laugh, threading her fingers through Peter's, reveling in this. The freedom she has, something she never had with John, which she previously thought she enjoyed. She doesn't have to hide Peter away, doesn't want to. For once, she has no desire to locked things up. She approaches anything not work-related like she's about to maneuver a field of broken glass; delicate steps, thudding heart, unshakable reluctance. But not with this. Not today, anyway.

* * *

_A/N: Well, I hope you all enjoyed my uncharacteristic delve into fluff. Angst to follow, of course. We all know Peter has some magical ability to get Olivia Dunham pregnant very quickly, and that's gonna be fun to play with, considering we're in mid-season two territory. :)_

_-Ellie_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I am so, so sorry that this is so late! I went through a really rough patch in early February and recovering from that took up most of energy. But I'm back and, hopefully, better than ever. For all the fluffiness in the previous, there's gonna lots of super fun angst coming up (fun for me, anyway), though not necessarily in this chapter. It's kinda short and transition-y._

_Disclaimer: Not mine. Duh._

* * *

Peter and Olivia aren't exactly the type to acknowledge monthly anniversaries of their relationship; neither have ever been known for being sentimental. Plus, after just four weeks, it'd be kind of (read: very) silly to rejoice over the 'milestone.' He does make her breakfast, though, and brings the plates to the bedroom. As soon as he sits down on the mattress, her eyes open, Olivia being an insanely light sleeper and all.

"Breakfast in bed? What's the occasion?" is the first thing she says, noticing the pancakes and scrambled eggs.

"No occasion," he lies, because, really, it's not an _occasion_. It's just a date on a calendar. "Just thought I'd surprise my wonderful girlfriend."

"Let me know if she ends up being surprised," she jokes, pushing herself into a sitting position against the pillow.

"Will do." He hands her one of the plates, which she takes, smiling, and he climbs back under the covers next to her.

"Wait," she says, and he looks up at her. "Is the occasion Walter _and_ our job both letting us sleep in?"

He laughs. "That's exactly it."

"Sounds like a good enough reason to celebrate for me," she says, and then pulls his mouth to hers. Even at seven o'clock in the morning, kissing her is nothing short of absolutely fantastic. Maybe someday that will wear off. Probably not.

When they finish eating, they clean up and load the dishwasher, and then shower together. Domesticity, for whatever reason, comes easily to them, a routine they didn't know that they'd always known, because it only works with each other.

They're wrapped in towels when Olivia's phone buzzes. Peter hears something about "twenty-five minutes" and there's no doubt about what's coming next. Nothing interrupts a quiet morning quite like gore and death.

"That was Broyles," she tells him as soon as she hangs up.

"I figured," he replies.

"C'mon, let's get dressed."

"Do we have to?"

* * *

When Walter finds out about their relationship (they never went out of their way to conceal it from him, but they never outright told him, either), he insists on making them a special dinner at the Bishop residence, complete with kicking his son out while he prepares. Which leads to a visit from the fire department rather than a meal, something that Peter and Olivia are hardly surprised by.

Two nights later, Walter is supervised while cooking, and the dinner itself isn't too bad. Not because the food isn't good or anything, because it's actually quite delicious. Walter's questions and comments about sex are uncomfortable and leave Olivia tugging, both metaphorically and physically, at her shirt collar.

After they finish eating, Walter hastily throws dishes into the sink, claims that he helped clean up, and then rushes out the door to give them "alone time." They have just enough time to chuckle at Walter's antics before they get called to a crime scene in Worcester.

Walter pouts the entire way there.

* * *

In the week leading up to Valentine's Day, they agree that there's no need to do anything big, like the 'month-iversary' that was mentioned only in passing. Chinese food and a tacky romcom on Netflix is enough for them; both having grown up loners, February fourteenth doesn't mean too much. It's Sunday night and they're wearing pajamas, her legs thrown across his lap, enjoying each other's company. Empty takeouts boxes clutter up her living room table; they're clutching bowls of popcorn now. On screen, a teary-but-beautiful blonde begs her handsome, tortured boyfriend to take her back.

"So," Olivia comments. "That's romance."

"No," Peter corrects with an all-encompassing gesture. "_This_ is romance."

She grins, truly and completely happy with this man and this date, and kisses him, a hand at his neck, at the beginnings of scruff on his face, tasting like salt. When they break apart, her forehead falls lightly to his.

"See?" He murmurs.

Olivia pulls his lips back to hers, and suddenly they're making out on the couch, him over her, hands greedily removing items of clothing.

Which is hardly different from any other night they've spent together.

* * *

"Maybe you have the flu."

They're both on the bathroom floor, chin hovering just above the toilet bowl, too drained to move a single muscle. After throwing up what feels like all of her internal organs, aches roll through her body, radiating from behind her belly button. Peter hasn't flinched once in this past half-hour, holding her hair and rubbing her back (which he's still doing), comforting wordlessly. Until now.

"Maybe," she croaks, and then closes her eyes.

He helps her hobble slowly back to bed, arm around her waist. She's trying to regain herself, to not need to lean on him, but her body betrays her. She - more or less - collapses unto her mattress, pressing her sweaty face to the pillow. Peter lays down next to her, loosely wrapping an arm around her. He goes back to being silently supportive, not bothered by how close he is to someone who has some sort of stomach virus. For someone who almost died of a vague and rare illness as a child, he's got a surprisingly strong immune system, and hardly ever gets sick.

After a while, he thinks she might have fallen asleep, but then her eyes open. Well, maybe only one, because that's all he can see. The other's obscured by the pillow.

She doesn't say anything, and so he doesn't either. A few moments pass like this, and then she sits up, him following suit.

"I feel okay," she says, voice still raspy. "Better. It was probably just something I ate."

"Are you sure?"

She stretches. "I'm fine. You and I both know I'm no good at sitting around either way."

* * *

All the day, the suspicions roll around her brain and distract her from work. Her and Peter have always been safe, but that doesn't necessarily mean there's a 0% chance of what she's thinking being real. Of her being pregnant. She knows it's silly, but the thoughts won't leave her head, good and bad ones. Because she could be. She might be. It's not an impossibility.

When she gets home (alone, which is a rarity these days, but she told Peter that she was really tired and, after this morning, he didn't doubt it), she peels off her clothes and tugs on pajamas, cotton pants and a shirt of Peter's that she wore home one day, completely by accident, and just ended up keeping.

She lays down on her bed and stares up at the ceiling, an old pastime of hers. Insomnia is despicably loyal.

Fingers at her stomach, pressed lightly to the skin, she wonders. She knows this much: Peter wouldn't be a bad father. He would love his child - their child - wholeheartedly. The images come easily to her; Peter carrying his toddler on his shoulders, fascinating them with card tricks, tucking them in at night. She's worried, yes, but it's not him that worries her.

It's herself.

She turns on her side. _It's just a stomach bug. Nothing more._

* * *

_A/N: Again, I'm really sorry about the late update. You guys can respect when a girl needs time, though, yeah? I hope so._

_Anyway, I hope you enjoyed!_

_- Ellie_


End file.
